


A Grace in His Quarrel

by Cinaed



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Battle, First Meetings, First Time, Frottage, Lord/Vassal Dynamics, M/M, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 19:33:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6127783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between a battle and an unexpected snowstorm, Amlach’s first day in the service of Maedhros is eventful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Grace in His Quarrel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts).



> This was originally intended as a gift for amyfortuna during Chocolatebox, but I didn't manage to finish it in time, whoops. Better late than never? 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Thanks for also shipping this non-existent pairing so I had an excuse to write it.
> 
> Thanks goes out to sath for helping me figure out how armour works. The title comes from a quotation by John Keats.

****“But Amlach repented, saying: 'I have now a quarrel of my own with this Master of Lies, which will last to my life's end'; and he went away north and entered the service of Maedhros.” – _Chapter 17: Of the Coming of Men into the West_

 

* * *

 

Amlach had never been an Elf-friend, concerning himself more with the affairs of his own people, but even he knew of Prince Maedhros, lord of Himring and once High King of the Noldor. It seemed as though any person with a musical bent composed a song or two (or three) about the elf-prince’s rescue from Thangorodrim.

Through song and story, Amlach knew of the scars that Lord Maedhros’s captivity had wrought, of the metal hand that it was said moved as though made of flesh and bone, and, lastly, of the hatred in his eyes that burned like unquenchable flame. It was the last of these which had decided Amlach after the Dark Lord had stolen his face and voice to do ill amongst his people. With a lord bent upon vengeance, Amlach might revenge himself upon the Enemy after all.

But when at last he was ushered into the great hall of Himring, he saw no scars upon Maedhros’s face, the elf-prince’s expression cold and stern but unmarred. He was dressed for battle. The chainmail drew in the torchlight, dazzling the eye until it seemed almost as though some smith had trapped fire within the metal.

Amlach straightened to his full height. The exhaustion from his journey fell away, replaced by anticipation. He would rather prove his worth to his new lord in battle than sit and warm himself beside the fire like a doddering old man unable to endure the cold.

Curious, he watched the metal hand carefully as another Elf offered the prince a shield. The fingers were finely crafted but seemed a trifle stiff, not as flexible as the minstrels had claimed. The only thing the songs hadn’t embellished was the elf-prince’s fierce look.

“Amlach son of Imlach, my lord,” announced one of the Elves who had brought Amlach from the outer gates. He bowed as he spoke. “He has come to pledge his service.” He glanced sideways at Amlach and added, laughing, “That is, once he stops shivering long enough to speak!”

Amlach smiled sourly, working his stiff jaw. His line was of hardy stock, and could endure the cold better than men of other houses, but the chill of a Himring autumn was bitterer than any winter he had encountered in Estolad. It would take some time to grow accustomed. He bowed as well, feeling Maedhros’s eyes light briefly upon him. When he thought he could speak without stuttering, he said, “Lord Maedhros, I swear to serve--”

“We ask for no oaths here,” Maedhros said. His expression was briefly hidden by his shield, which he had lifted to test its weight. When he lowered the shield, his expression was polite and remote. “But you are welcome in Himring. Nethon will show you to the barracks.” His voice was accented and strange, with a curious twist to each syllable as he beckoned another Elf from amongst the onlookers. After a second, Amlach realised that he’d spoken in the old tongue, the one Amlach’s grandfather and his generation had used before they’d journeyed over the mountains.

Amlach struggled to keep the consternation off his face. It was one thing to know that the Eldar were immortal, and quite another to hear a dying dialect spoken as though he were expected to know it well. He bowed again. “Thank you, my lord.” Then he looked to Maedhros’s shield. Longing for battle rose in him. His voice was rougher than he’d intended as he asked, “Do I keep you from the war?”

Maedhros’s jaw tightened. “We seek out an Orc band spotted nearby.” He paused. “You wish to accompany us.”

It wasn’t a question, but Amlach answered him nonetheless. “It is why I came here. I’ve a quarrel of my own with this Morgoth, and I intend to make him regret a choice or two.” He ignored the looks this earned. “I don’t know how your people fight, but I’ve a ready hand with a bow if you need another archer.”

Maedhros had been frowning past Amlach’s shoulder, perhaps thinking of the upcoming fight. Now he was fully present, and it took everything in Amlach to meet those bright eyes. Amlach braced himself for a refusal, but Maedhros said, “Very well.” The prince turned and beckoned again, a trace of impatience in the gesture. “Nethon, make certain he is well-supplied and bring him to the courtyard as soon as you can. Be certain not to forget his gloves.”

“At once, my lord,” said Nethon, bowing.

Amlach frowned at his gloves, serviceable ones that Adanel had made for him, but he didn’t protest as Nethon took him by the arm. His last sight of his new lord was Maedhros donning his helmet.

 

* * *

 

The Orcs rode upon white wolves, as though they had hoped to camouflage themselves against the snow while they travelled through Maedhros’s territory. The trick had done them no good against the sharp eyes of the Himring scouts. The two sides fought viciously, churning snow and blood beneath hooves and paws.

Amlach chafed at being with the archers rather than in the thick of the fighting for all that he had been the one to suggest it. Then the Elves drew back a pace, granting Amlach a clear view of the enemy. Here were the followers of the Dark Lord who had used Amlach so poorly.

His arrow took one of the wolves cleanly through the eye. The wolf dropped like a stone, its rider managing one hoarse yell before the line of Elves surged forward once more and trampled over the Orc.

Amlach allowed himself a smile of satisfaction even as he reached for another arrow. He plucked it from his quiver easily, for these elven gloves were unburdensome, warm and yet thinner than his previous pair. Even his mail was lighter than he'd expected when Nethon had first thrust it at him. Starting to raise his bow once more, he paused as someone cried out, “To the west!”

He turned and was blinded by a gust of snow. For an instant all he saw was white. Then he wiped hastily at his eyes, blinking, and beheld a monster. The creature was a full foot taller than the largest Orc, misshapen beyond description, and so pale that the blue of its veins showed beneath its skin as it beat a fist against its chest and snarled.

Amlach raised his bow. As though it had somehow heard the whistle of the shaft over the clamour, the creature turned at the last second. The arrow missed its mark, opening a long cut across the monster’s jaw instead. The creature didn’t seem to notice. It knocked the nearest Elf’s sword aside and dragged him screaming off his mount. The horse reared, striking in vain at the monster, and then fled as the creature reached for her as well.

This time Amlach’s arrow found the creature’s belly, a hair’s breadth behind two other shafts from his fellow archers. At last the creature felt its wounds. Snarling in rage, it tossed the Elf aside and bent a little to pluck at the arrows with bloody fingers.

Amlach notched his next arrow, and then Maedhros was there, his look fell.

Maedhros rose to his full height upon his mount and struck with all his weight behind the blow. His sword nearly hewed the creature’s head from its neck. Blood fountained from the wound as the creature groped at its throat and fell.

When Maedhros turned, a darker red had dimmed the fiery colour of his long hair and stained his face and chainmail. Amlach couldn’t look away from his bloodied mouth and its grim, triumphant smile. Now longing rose in him to fight beside Maedhros, side by side, the desire so strong that his hands trembled upon his bow.

Then some of the elf-prince’s fierce look eased. Maedhros slid his sword into his scabbard and bent in his saddle, dragging the fallen Elf upon his steed. The Elf slumped in his grip, though Amlach couldn’t tell if he was dead or simply unconscious.

“We must clear a path,” the archer beside Amlach said, and Amlach nodded, recovering his wits. Together they struck down the enemies that stood between Maedhros and safety, Amlach’s arms aching from the frenzied effort, until at last Maedhros was behind the line and could pass his injured companion to one of the waiting Elves.

Maedhros wheeled to face the Orcs, but the fight had gone out of them.

A few of the enemy fled. Amlach’s last arrows stopped two before the tree-line; the others were pursued and slain. And then it was over. The sounds of the injured filled the air, interrupted by the occasional broken-off snarl as the Elves, unsmiling now, went amongst the surviving Orcs and put them all to the sword. They only paused in their deadly work to laugh as the Elf Maedhros had rescued woke, complaining as he touched his head. One of the other Elves went around to each horse, checking them for injuries.

“A ready hand with a bow indeed!” said Maedhros, appearing suddenly beside Amlach. He no longer wore his triumphant smile, but his grim look seemed softer than before. “How do you fare with a sword?”

This close, Amlach could see in fine detail the red smeared across Maedhros’s face and the blood beginning to freeze in his hair, though Maedhros seemed unbothered by it. The autumn air blew northward, and the smell of death went with it, for which Amlach was grateful. He loved battle, but not the aftermath.

“Better than a bow,” he said, shrugging, “but I favour an axe.” Then he looked past Maedhros towards the creature’s body and grinned, unable to restrain himself at the memory of Maedhros’s sword flashing in the sun. The minstrels would have needed no embellishments for that! “What a blow! The songs speak truly of your great deeds, though they might lie about all else.”

Maedhros said nothing.

Amlach recalled himself with one glance at Maedhros’s expressionless look. He was speaking to his liege lord, not to Bereg or one of his men. Hastily, he bowed, saying, “Forgive my careless tongue, my lord. I meant no disrespect.”

Maedhros made to speak and stopped. Small cracks appeared in the dried blood as his brow creased, like ice splintering. “If you spoke an insult, I heard it not,” he said at last. Amlach frowned after him as he strode away, calling for the slain Orcs to be piled together to be burned.

 

* * *

 

The wind grew stronger as they worked, fanning the flames of the fire, and Amlach was glad at last when they left the smouldering remains of the battle behind them. The company kept the pace slow, for the horses needed rest. They had travelled a fair distance when Maedhros rose in his saddle, raising his hand to stop the procession. He frowned up at the sky.

One of Amlach’s fellow archers drew his horse alongside Amlach. “A fine welcome to Himring,” he said with a grin, nodding towards the clouds gathering above their heads. “A battle and a snowstorm!”

“A snowstorm,” Amalch echoed. He looked up at the darkening sky just as snow began to fall. One flake landed briefly on his cheek. He frowned. “Isn’t it autumn?”

The Elf laughed. “Autumn and winter are much alike here. You’ll learn.”

Maedhros raised his hand once more. The company quieted, waiting for his command. “Let us move a little faster, though tell me if your horses need rest.”

Amlach bent a little against the wind, shivering as it whipped his face. His horse let out a resigned sigh as she pressed on. He half-closed his eyes, fixing them upon the rider ahead of him, and only opened them wide once more when a glad cry met his ears.

A rider approached swiftly. As he neared, he slowed his mount and stopped before them. He threw back his hood to the reveal pale eyes and a lean, curious face of an Elf. He raised both eyebrows, looking sharply at Maedhros. “An unsuccessful hunt?”

“It isn’t my blood,” Maedhros answered evenly.

As the other Elf’s expression cleared Amlach realised that they were brothers, though one was fair and the other dark. When he searched his memory for the names of Maedhros’s brothers, he remembered Maglor, who guarded the nearby pass.

Bringing his horse closer, Maglor touched Maedhros’s jaw where the blood lay thickest. He said with a faintly mocking smile, “Unless you intend a new fashion, you should call for a hot bath once we reach Himring. But we must be quick, or else the storm will catch us.”

Maedhros frowned. He turned to study the company and Amlach instinctively straightened, though Maedhros’s gaze only lingered on Caraphinnor and Faron, the injured Elves. He raised his eyes once more to the sky. White flakes settled upon his gambeson, pale against the bloodstains. “I dislike pressing the horses so hard.”

“They’ll thank you when they are safe in the stables,” said Maglor.

Maedhros’s frown didn’t lessen, but he nodded. He spared a moment to ensure that Caraphinnor and Faron could withstand the pace and then they were off, racing towards Himring.

The storm worsened, the wind rising and the snow falling so swiftly that Amlach could scarcely see the horse ahead of him, a dark smear of colour against the blinding white. He bent lower in the saddle. He called encouragement to his mount, though he doubted that she could hear him. Everything sounded muffled-- his voice, the hoof-beats, the wind.

Perhaps the mountains provided some protection, for the snowfall changed, lightening enough that he could see - not well, but more clearly than before. He had a moment’s grace before the new snowfall proved dangerous. It whipped into his eyes, sharp and stinging, and he swore and threw up a hand to protect himself.

When his vision cleared, there was no sign of his company. All he could see was white and the head of his own mount. She sensed his alarm and stopped, stomping nervously. The wind whipped all sound away. He swore again, low and vicious.

There was movement to his right. He turned as Maedhros appeared, his bright hair flashing like a beacon. Maedhros seized Amlach’s reins and drew their mounts together so that they were nearly touching.

Amlach, squinting, thought he saw Maedhros’s lips move, but the wind drowned out any words. He shook his head in frustration. “Lead and I will follow,” he shouted and hoped that he was understood.

Maedhros led them forward or perhaps sideways — Amlach had lost all sense of direction. At last the blinding snow gave way to the sheer grey of the mountainside. Amlach spotted the opening in the mountain’s wall a second before they passed into a well-sized cave that smelled musty from disuse.

The sudden lack of wind was shocking. Amlach’s chainmail chimed dully as he shuddered and then shuddered again, for the steel seemed to draw in the chill, painfully cold despite his cloak and gambeson. He dismounted, and smiled despite his ill-humour as his mount sighed in relief. He took off his helmet and arm guards. Then he set about removing her saddle.

He laughed when the mare lipped at his pale hair, come free of its braid. Lightly pushing her head aside, he said, “None of that. That’s my hair you’re eating, not straw.” A familiar scraping sound met his ears. Turning, he caught Maedhros’s fleeting look of satisfaction as a small fire cast shadows upon the cave’s walls.

Then Maedhros rose to his feet. His metal hand kept his horse steady as his living fingers worked at the horse’s saddle. Freed of its weight, the gelding shook himself and moved close to the fire, his head bowed low with weariness.

When Maedhros looked towards him, Amlach realised he'd been staring. He wetted his dry lips with his tongue, and half-grimaced at the sting. He remembered their earlier conversation. His pride smarted. His chainmail seemed even colder and heavier than before, for all that the cave felt warmer. Stiffly, he bowed. “I hope to be less of a burden in the future, my lord.”

Maedhros's brow creased once more. He seemed bemused. “Do you always speak for others as though you know their minds? I have not called you a burden, or thought you one.”

Amlach frowned. It was his turn to hesitate. Slowly he said, “Had my sight not failed me, you would be safe in Himring.”

“Or the storm would have continued to worsen. Even an Elf's sight might fail in such weather,” Maedhros said. He turned towards the cave’s entrance, staring at the falling snow. He continued quietly, almost to himself. “I would not have been the first Elf to die from the cold.”

The elf-prince’s tone was distant, and Amlach’s instincts clamoured a warning. He cast around for a change in subject. As he thought, the chainmail felt even colder. He looked at Maedhros’s gleaming hand and wondered how it fared against the mail. When Nethon had armed Amlach, the chainmail had proved complicated. “Once my mare is free of her saddle, shall I help you with your chainmail?”

Maedhros turned. In that single slow movement Amlach knew he’d misspoken even before Maedhros said, his pleasant tone at odds with his thin-lipped smile, “I need no assistance, but perhaps you do?”

Amlach started to scowl, nettled, before he remembered: his pride would not help him. If he stood here arguing over who needed help, he would shiver in his mail until his teeth chattered and he truly embarrassed himself. Shrugging, he said, “In truth, my lord, I might. Nethon was in all haste that I not delay you. It was not so much a lesson on elven armour as it was him strapping and buckling me in as quickly as he could. I've always worn leather jerkins before.”

Maedhros said nothing, but came to stand before the mare, holding her still as Amlach reached for her saddle. She attempted to chew on Maedhros’s hair as she had Amlach’s, but one look from the elf-prince quelled her. After a few seconds she turned her head, eyeing Amlach thoughtfully.

“My hair still isn't straw,” he told her, setting aside the saddle. The last of his temper went with her deep sigh, as though she’d understood him. He patted her neck, smiling as she shook away his hand.

“My apologies!” he called after her as she went to the gelding’s side. Then he turned towards Maedhros. Beneath that unreadable look, he bowed once more. “Well, my lord, will you show me how to manage this mail?”

They worked in silence, three hands making swifter work than two, and yet still there seemed to make no end to it. His cloak was easy enough, but his mail and gambeson seemed to have endless straps and buckles.

Amlach shook his head as Maedhros reached for the next buckle of his gambeson. “Are all these buckles needed?”

“The armourers claim so,” said Maedhros. “However, I sometimes suspect a few are there merely to teach the wearers patience.”

His tone had been dry, but Amlach looked curiously at him. Spying the glint in his eyes, Amlach laughed. “So you can jest! In truth, my lord, I had wondered.”

Maedhros’s answering smile took him by surprise. It was nothing like the grim, bloodied smile of before, and transformed his face. Amlach stared, all thoughts swept away by the desire to kiss him. He took a step forward and then stopped. Wishing he'd thought to ask Adanel about certain customs of the Elves, he licked his lips.

Maedhros's smile widened. He reached out and traced Amlach's jaw with light fingertips. Amlach's misgivings fled; he swayed into the touch, letting Maedhros draw him close until they were face to face. Maedhros's warm look was like a second caress. “You hesitate,” Maedhros said, half-chiding. “What has become of your careless tongue?”

Amlach grinned. “Forgive it for displeasing you again,” he said, and leaned forward.

Maedhros kissed as he fought: fiercely. His hand cupped the nape of Amlach's neck.

Arousal surged through Amlach as he remembered the strength of that hand. He started to embrace Maedhros and then drew back swearing. He'd forgotten that Maedhros was still in his mail. Shaking his smarting fingers, he muttered, “I've a word or two for your armourers and their cursed buckles and straps, my lord,” and went to work on them with feverish impatience as Maedhros smiled.

At last the mail and gambesons were discarded. When Maedhros manoeuvreed Amlach towards the wall of the cave, Amlach went gladly. His back struck stone with such force that he winced and laughed again, delighted by this show of impatience. He pressed his hand between Maedhros's legs, stroking Maedhros's cock through his breeches and grinning at Maedhros's sharp breath.

He stared up at Maedhros's flushed face, shadowed by the firelight, his hair seeming aflame, and thought he had never seen anything so beautiful. His desire was heady and more potent than wine. He stroked more firmly, and said, striving for a mock-thoughtful tone, “I know little of elven custom, my lord. Is this how you celebrate a well-fought battle? Had I known, I would--”

Maedhros pressed a bruising kiss to his mouth, effectively silencing him. “You talk too much,” Maedhros said when he drew back, but there was a thread of amusement in his voice, and his hand settled upon Amlach's hip.

Amlach licked his lips, chasing Maedhros's taste. “So I have been told,” he agreed. He grinned without apology. “I was a leader amongst my people. It will take some time before I learn to be meek before my new lord.”

“What need have I for meek men?”

Amlach opened his mouth to answer, and then lost his retort as Maedhros slid his hand to Amlach's back and pulled him closer. Amlach's hand was trapped between them for a moment before he could shift a little and grab Maedhros's hips. Now all that lay between them were a few pieces of clothing. Perhaps Maedhros would have fumbled for the ties of their breeches in a moment, but Amlach had no wish to wait. He thrust eagerly against Maedhros.

Each movement was rough but sweet, accentuated by Maedhros half-kissing, half-biting his lips, his jaw, his throat like a trail of sharp fire. “My lord,” Amlach said, burying his hand in Maedhros's thick hair, keeping him still for a second so that he could answer his kisses. He wondered with wild delight if Maedhros's skin would bruise as intensely as his own.

Pleasure built in him and then broke. He smothered his swearing laughter against Maedhros's shoulder. Maedhros's hand tightened upon him; even through the roaring in his ears, he heard the sounds Maedhros made as he came.

The dampness turned uncomfortable after a moment, despite the fire and Maedhros's warm closeness, but Amlach ignored the discomfort. He leaned his weight against Maedhros and remembered with exhausted pleasure Maedhros's strength as Maedhros's arm went around him. He turned his head a little, kissing Maedhros's jaw and muttering, “That should be a tradition, if it isn't already.” He felt the faint movement of Maedhros's suppressed laughter.

When Maedhros stepped back, his hand settling again at Amlach's hip, Amlach grinned. Glancing towards the cave's entrance, he saw that snow was still falling. The sky had begun to darken, a signal of evening. “It seems we'll have to stay here until morning. Well, that is no hardship!” He laughed, savouring the sight of Maedhros's kiss-swollen lips. “Give me a few minutes and we can celebrate further.”

Maedhros raised both eyebrows. One corner of his mouth turned upwards. “I have heard of rumours from Nargothrond about Men's desires, but I hadn't believed them until now.”

“Has no other Man in your service approached you?” Amlach said, surprised. “I cannot believe it.” Already Maedhros's nearness was affecting him once more, as though he were a boy of seventeen instead of a man of two and thirty. He touched Maedhros's cheek where the drying sweat had mixed with the blood, stroking his thumb over the stains.

“Perhaps none of them had this chance at privacy,” said Maedhros, his tone teasingly mild. He turned his head just a little, his mouth brushing Amlach's fingers before he added, “Shall I describe a few of the rumours?”

Arousal made Amlach catch his breath and then grin broadly. “If you wish, my lord,” he said as he traced Maedhros's lower lip. “And shall I demonstrate a few of these rumours for you, should they prove not to be rumours?” He leaned in, replacing his fingers with his mouth. A few biting kisses later, he added, “We Men and Elves must understand each other if we are to defeat the Enemy.”

Maedhros's eyes gleamed. “Indeed,” he murmured, and let Amlach draw him close again, the better to learn of him.


End file.
